Satya’s alarm goes off. Her phone buzzes against the hard surface of the bedside cabinet. It’s dark outside. I groan, roll over and go back to sleep. When I wake up the sky is a flat grey. Later, looking into the garden I see how much the tulip shoots have grown. A few slivers of blue cut through the cloud.
These days I tend to look forward to waking up and beginning the day, but this transition time has always been a dangerous point for me. I know that if there are things weighing on my mind it is at this time of day, between waking up and getting up, that these worries become inflated. I remember mornings in the past where I would lie in bed and my mind would create whole stories around these worries….
The difficult conversation I had to have with my boss would become twice as difficult in my imagination. The mistake I made in my work the previous day would become proof of my own uselessness… That second one is a self-fulfilling truth, the more useless I felt – the more useless I would act.
On these mornings I would come down the stairs like the character from some children’s book called The Grump. Huffing and puffing, and grumbling my way to the kettle and the first cup of tea of the day.
The rest of the day would go one of two ways, depending on what I did next. If I dwelt in these stories and added energy to them, then I wasn’t going to have a good day. If I put my attention on something real (instead of on my imagined woes) then my mood would shift and I could begin to enjoy the day.
This is where small stones comes in. Writing a small stone asks me to look into the world at something real, and pay attention. I start to notice things that I haven’t seen before: the pattern of the fuchsia splatter on the inside of the white hellebore, a few yellow primroses nestling in the front garden, the goldfinch at the feeder. All of these things bring me out of my self and into the world.
Sometimes this is enough. To put my attention on something real is enough to shake me out of the blues and settle into the day. Sometimes it’s not enough.
When the small stone practice doesn’t shake me out of my worries, there’s something else that might. If I can become curious, without judgement about what is going on for me, I can start to untangle the worries, and they start to lift. “Is there a message in this anxiety?” I wonder, “Am I upset about someone not keeping their word, because I haven’t kept my word recently?”
These sorts of questions can often lead to insight, and when I get an idea about where the feelings are coming from, I can usually accept them more easily, and then, in time, let them go.
In our e-courses we use small stones and other forms of written reflection to look both into the world and into ourselves. We are curious about what is happening in our own minds, and what is happening out there in the real world.
Having done this sort of thing for a while now, my grumpy mornings are much less frequent, and when they appear, I can usually shake them off, either through having some sense where their roots lie, or by looking into the world.
If you’d like to spend time looking deeper into your self and your place in the world, sign up for one of our Writing Our Way Home e-courses now – Journalling Our Way Home, Writing Towards Healing or my new Creative Boost package The Way of Getting Things Done. They start on Friday and as soon as you register we can send you out your materials. We look forward to working with you.
photo by Mike Legend
really enjoyed this.
Streaks of weak sunshineacross the lawnwarming the dainty whitesnowdrop buds.
Whitesnowdrop buds,heads coyly bowed,enjoy the weak sun’swarmth.
Thinking about Small Stones and then writing them helps me to focus on something beyond myself always.In part I think reflection and focus are anti-anxiety remedies because they take us out of ourselves, but I also think that many of us have this creative centre that can’t find an outlet and that in itself can be an underlying cause of stress. The Eastern Theraputic Writing course that I’m doing with you right now is allowing me to express myself and learn so much at the same time – I recommend!!
“I need a something good to read,” she said. “But it has to be just the right size to fit in my new purse.” Fahrenheit 451, paperback.
It’s been a wonderful journey in a new direction that I’m confident will blossom. Thank You!http://positivekismet.blogspot.com/2013/01/inspiration-hold-on-to-light.htmlEliz
in the blue plastic bincellophane wrappingsweet wrappersthe ash and matchsticksfrom morning incense
Thanks Dreary Mouse
Glad you are enjoying the course Franckie – spread the word!
Slowing down, not cramming in as much as I can into the day, not trying to do so much, just doing what I can and doing it well; relaxed, calm, feeling, achievement in the small, everyday things; homemade pizza, cleaning, ironing…© Freya Pickard 2013
no birdsong todayjust a winter melodyicicles drip, drip
Before and after prose pieces surround this Elfjelaughteryours, his,theirs – echoes joyfullyas I my eyescloseYou can find them here:http://julesgemstonepages.wordpress.com/2013/01/30/mindful-30/
So grateful for this post and to know I am not the only one who struggles with transitions. And I appreciate how you’ve explained the healthy aspect of writing small stones. Getting out of my own head is half my problem. Focusing and/or hyper-focusing is another problem.Would love to take your course on writing for healing, but at the moment, $80 is a reach. You know how we writers are, income wise. Thank you for all you do.
an old desk returned to mean odd faded spot noticedan errant glass assumedtoday the light is just rightand i lean just rightto discover a canine printleft by an excited friend with wet pawswww.danassmallstones.blogspot.com
Our 17-year old black kittyhowls for food at 6 a.m.He’s a real piggyever since hubbybought him mini-cansof “Fancy Feast.”Spoiled, thin cat-I love to watch him eatwith the gusto of a kitten.
I was feeling anxious and uncomfortable this morning. The time I spent reading this post and then admiring and noticing my sweater (which I never really, really looked at before) lifted my mood.Here’s my small stone for today:An intricately braided emerald green sweater. Pockets resemble pottery bowls shaped by inexperienced hands. Chocolate brown and pea green flecks of color dapple the hard round glinting buttons, and the soft, well-worn fabric loosely folds.
Stop Signsimple signalplanted at an intersectionpole and metal platefamiliar eight sidesone word STOP in white on a red fieldThis common device is used to stop vehicles.This small stationary thing commands a big moving machine to halt.It exists for safety.The purpose is not to make the driver happier.
A second pair of duck lovershave reappeared in the pondletnear the shore of the mostly-frozen,flooded summer soccer field.They swim around in the fog,then begin foraging for tidbitsbelow the water’s surface.They turn their tails straight up,the better, one presumes,to find hidden goodies on the bottom.Their actions remind me of synchronized swimmers, honing their individual skillsprior to choreographing their moves in concert.Perhaps that comes later.
Hours spent whittling and painting. Now it’s five years on and paint has flaked from every holly twig. Even from the red stem where I wrote your favourite lyrics, ‘Calon lân yn llawn daioni’, though the ink clings on. The yellow twig still points at ‘Lovingkindness’. The blue twig points towards an older headstone.
night on bald mountainin the middle of the daygets my heart beatingfaster, faster, faster,until everything slows down,again,and my eyes fill.a single flute singsand recedesinto the quiet.http://tinyriversplash.blogspot.com
Pennies fell from heavenon a day the world worked against me.Good things do happen, if you believe they can.The howling wind agrees.
ice meltsstreaming down her cheekshis lips interruptIce Melts
In the spotlight of the lamp, I wake from abandonment to the urgency of broken phrases and the indent of a pen upon my cheek.
The Food TerminalThis morningIs a bowl of soup:Wood smokeSpiced meatStirred into gas fumesFrom the highwayAnd fog.
Try to see best in people, but today I struggle, hearing the negativesthe moans,the gripes and strifeI long to go to my quiet place
Urban traffic sounds Alien to this woods’s woman New delights to come
Covered in snow and huddled so close together, these two bikes look like something from a dream, much more magical than usual, or are they just as magical as usual but I just don’t normally notice, don’t recognize the beauty of their shape, can’t see beyond their utility, don’t really see them until one cold morning when they are covered in white and the street lamp highlights them like a display in an art gallery, while the moon turns the snow just beyond this circle of light a ghostly lavender blue. In this moment, they look as if they will melt entirely as soon as the sun comes out, are suddenly somehow mortal. (see accompanying picture)
Long after dark and it is still seventy degrees. The weather channel is predicting a storm later tonight and much colder temperatures in the morning.The wind is quite brisk.I am treated to a symphony by the windchimes that hang in the dogwood trees surrounding the deck.Even after going back indoors, I can still hear the winds roaring through the trees.
Drive in the country foothillsOn an errand, but not in a hurryPicture perfect winter sunny daySkies stippled with billowy white cloudsWinter trees model their bare armsDiverse sizes and ages of cattlePatterned, black, and brownDot luscious green winter ryeOreo cows are my favoriteLifted spiritsInner and outer amusementMindful excursionSmall Stone – Day 30
A week or so ago, I captured some caterpillars on one of our mango trees. I am having a go at rearing them to see what they turn into …Wee hairy beasties in yellow, orange, and blackmove with imperceptible slowness across the mango leaves,vacuuming off the surface layer of cells andleaving brown in their wake. Small agents of destruction, growing larger every day.to see the photo and the post, go to:http://writingwhileunder.blogspot.com/2013/01/jan-30-2013.html
Day 30Stopped at the train crossing,a song on the radio keeps perfect time with the blinking metronome of red lights.- Maureen Bailey
#30With distant eyes, she regards me, sits opposite my seat in the bus.The commute is long, yet she never looks at me again. I wonder where friendships go after one leaves a workplace behind.
Sitting in a crowded room,Voices are raised, people are chatting, talking, shouting….People like talking about people. It makes us feel superior. Makes us feel in control. And sometimes, for some people, knowing some things makes them care…The noise falls as a single person sobs into her hands.Nobody wants to move or say a word as the shock sinks in.